


The End of Love

by with_rhyme



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 05:11:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/with_rhyme/pseuds/with_rhyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellatrix will always remember that night, moon fat and yellow in the sky and air thick with the scent of magnolias, when she walked away from Antonin and into the arms of Rodolphus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End of Love

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the HP Drizzle Fest over on Livejournal. The prompt was: Bellatrix married on a warm night in late spring with the scent of magnolias thick in the air.
> 
> A thank you to the lovely sara_lakali for the beta.

The night is warm and sticky, the twilight sky a hazy black thrown over turquoise. The gentle hum of insects begins to fill the air and the soft yellow bulbs of lightning bugs flash their presence in the yard below.  
  
From above, Bellatrix watches the to-and-fro of witches and wizards in white uniforms milling about with vases of flowers and fancy garden chairs. She is sitting on the sill of the open window, straddling the ledge and letting her foot dangle along the wall of the house.  
  
She’s getting married tonight.  
  
The thought requires a drag from her fag, and the warm tingling itch helps to clear her mind.  
  
Married to Rodolphus Lestrange.  
  
A movement beyond the back wall of the garden caches her eye; a dark figure standing behind the brick fencing, a head of straight brown hair occasionally peering over.  
  
Bellatrix tries to fight the automatic flip her stomach does at the sight of him, and as usual her heart ignores her and does a stutter of its own.  
  
Antonin.  
  
She can see from here that his face is set in its usual mask: eyes blank and expression smooth. But years spent together have taught her to read those fine lines on his face, and there’s something about the tightness around his eyes and mouth, the particular deadness behind his gaze as he watches the preparations in the garden. It makes her ache in a place she usually doesn’t, and she has to take another drag, her lipstick clinging to the filter.  
  
She flicks the still-burning butt out the window, pulling her arm around herself to bury her nose in the crook of her elbow, smelling the skin there and gathering up all the butterflies in her stomach with the largest net bravery can find.  
  
Bellatrix wills herself to sneak down the stairs, out of the house, to wrap herself around the trees and the bushes as she darts through the garden with the grass soft on her bare feet, to come up behind him, hand gentle on his arm, and whisper, “Antonin.”  
  
His smile slips over her like a sunset, eyes laughing as rough fingers pull through her tangle of black hair.  
  
“Not going to brush it, even on your wedding day, huh?” The smile goes lopsided; fingers tighten to pull on a lone strand.  
  
She nods, because her tongue doesn’t always work when she looks at him.   
  
“I want to go away from here,” she whispers, and even as she says the words Antonin is pulling her away from the garden wall, back into the dark green depths of the grounds. The trees and bushes have been growing on the property for centuries and form thick pockets and groves of seclusion, bubbles of eerie silence, the grass a cushion and the sky an endless ceiling for swallowing sound.  
  
Antonin isn’t looking to see if someone is watching when he shoves her against a tree trunk, the bark scratching her back and tearing the delicate lace of her dress as she gasps, pleased. He moves down her neck, soothing small nips with quick kisses as one hand moves up to cup her breast and the other moves down to push up the heavy fabric of her dress.  
  
It’s rough and it’s desperate, because they both know that this is the end.  
  
Pressed up against the tree, Antonin’s hand between her legs and his lips on her throat, Bellatrix is aware once again that she never feels more sane, more present, than when she’s with him. His touch, his scent, his words, are so wonderfully sharp that they seem to cut right to the centre of her, piercing that soft underbelly which she is usually able to keep so hidden, so well-protected.  
  
With him, she becomes a different creature, something soft and feminine that sighs when his hand brushes the hair out of her face and wants to lay her head against his chest once they’re spent.  
  
Bellatrix offers her sounds to the night, leaning her head back to give Antonin better access to her neck as she arches her lower body to meet his. They talk through soft touches on warm skin, fingers smoothing over the peaks and valleys of strong features, because words are too much, now, and mean too little.   
  
The few fumbling touches that she and Rodolphus have had the chance to sneak away for were clammy and unsatisfying; his shaking swipes at her breasts and her half-hearted attempts to palm him through the layers of his robes. The fact that he wasn’t Antonin always weighed heavily on both of their minds.  
  
They had all been friends as kids, lumped in a pureblood group of play-dates put together so that their mothers could gossip and drink wine under the pretence of fostering social interaction. The three of them would play inside quietly until their parents were just tipsy enough that they wouldn’t notice the sudden absence of their children into the backyard. That was when the fun truly began, chasing each other around on toy brooms and tossing glittering sparks into the air with their starter wands, laughing and rolling around in the garden until they dragged themselvespanting back into the house, flushed and grass-stained.   
  
She and Antonin had been close from the start, more alike in personality and disposition than Rodolphus, who had always been quieter, more reserved. As they grew older they became each other’s best friends and confidants; their friendship an escape, a shelter from the madness that seemed to haunt both of their families.   
  
She had been sixteen when her parents announced whom she was to be married to. It had been the summer after sixth year; an unassuming afternoon when her parents pulled her into the study and made their choice known to her. Bellatrix did not say a word during the entire revelation, instead looking only towards her mother, who would not meet her eyes.   
  
Bellatrix had known why and hated her mother’s weakness, her placidity, the easy way in which she was willing to ruin her daughter’s life the same way hers had been.  
  
She had been in the kitchen late one night when her mother had stumbled in, steps unsteady and eyes bloodshot. Her face was haggard and drawn, lack of sleep highlighting the deep valleys in her cheeks and pitting deep dark circles underneath her eyes. Bellatrix could practically taste the stench of alcohol radiating off of her.  
  
“Have I ever told you,” her mother had slurred, making her way towards the cabinet the house elves stored the liquor in, “that I hate your father?”  
  
Bellatrix didn’t respond, only tracking her mother’s movements as she made her way around the kitchen.  
  
She fumbled letters, words rolling around in her mouth like loose dice. “I never loved him.” A dry smirk. “You don’t need love to fuck, little Bella.”  
  
She swung the empty gin bottle in her hand, using it to point at her. “You’ll have an arranged marriage just like I did, and you’ll have to learn to fuck a man you detest just like I did.”  
  
Reaching in the cabinet to grab a fresh bottle, she took a long swig before callously wiping her mouth on the back of her hand and turning to walk out of the room. She stopped, one hand on the trim of the door to steady herself as she let out a sigh. Her next words were quiet, and spoken with such feeling that Bellatrix almost believed her.  
  
“I’m sorry.”   
  
Now they sat in the dark study with the green carpet and squeaky leather seats; her father’s face full of stern lines and her mother’s face full of shame.  
  
“Rodolphus is from a good family,” her father rumbled. “Old, pure, financially secure.” The trifecta.   
  
Later that night, Bellatrix had been on the old swing in the garden when Antonin wandered in. She hadn’t looked up as he came behind her, and she kept her head down as he put his hands on her back to give her a push. Her dark hair flew out behind her as she soared up, the loud groan of the swing and the tangle of her hair surrounding her as she returned to the firm press of Antonin’s hands.  
  
She didn’t speak until she got to the very top of the arch, high and far away from the earth, from reality and her future, where the gravity of the situation would eventually pull her down and she could no longer float away, high above the trees.  
  
“It’s Rodolphus,” she said, and let the wind carry the words away from her.  
  
Antonin never moved, never faltered, never said a word as he continued to silently push her. And so she swung on, steadily and without sound, as the sun began to set over the back gate, scattering orange bands of light through the cracks in the brick.   
  
They knew this had been a possibility, had talked about it. Had talked about running away the way teenagers in love do, full of blind passion and the belief that willpower was enough to start their lives from the bottom up.  
  
In the space of two words speculation had become truth, the weight of it settling itself on their shoulders, a weight willpower was incapable of lessening.  
  
They stopped only because she began to shiver. Bellatrix likes to think that they could have gone on forever, an ebb and flow hosted in the sky, and their lives would have been nothing but coming back to each other, time and time again.  
  
Antonin came around to face her, pulling off the outer layer of his robes to drape across her shoulders. He sank to the ground, ignoring the cool dampness of the grass as he laid his head against her thigh, nuzzling her through the thin fabric of her robes. She put her hands in his hair, tugging softly at the strands as she carded her fingers through it.  
  
“Shit,” he whispered. “I guess now there’s empirical proof that I’m not good enough for you, isn’t there?”  
  
“Don’t say that,” she snapped, more out of habit than of any real anger.  
  
Antonin only shrugged, shuffling so that his head was situated in her lap. “You can’t say you’re surprised.”  
  
No. Surprise was not one of the things Bellatrix had been feeling.  
  
She tugged a little more sharply on his hair to get him to turn his head to look at her. Antonin’s eyes were large and dark, blinking up at her from under long lashes. “I don’t want to,” she said, annoyed at the whine in her voice and the break at the end. He gave her a soft smile, running a soothing hand up her leg.  
  
They’d shared their first kiss so long ago—small children holding hands and giggling, chaste lips pressed closed-mouthed against each other, wet and sweet.  
  
The kiss they shared then was wet with tears neither of them were willing to talk about, and later that night the sex they had was sharp with the pain of her first time.  
  
That pain is long gone, now, and as Antonin pushes into her she can’t imagine never being able to feel him again, moving inside her, filling her, as he works them both to the end.  
  
They lean foreheads against each other as they stand gasping in the middle of the woods, straightening clothing and casting cleaning charms as heat beats slow to breaking at what they both know comes next.  
  
Bellatrix is the first to move, because she knows Antonin won’t. He would hold on to her forever, if he could.  
  
If she let him.  
  
So she shoves him away, tries not to linger, tries not to act like her hands want nothing more than to bury themselves in his robes and pull her to him.   
  
“ _Go_ , Antonin,” she says with a final push that maybe has too much force in it, because he stumbles.   
  
She turns around quickly, not looking to see if he caught himself, because she can’t catch him now. She can’t go back to his arms to feel his heartbeat, feel his skin rough against hers, knowing that if she stood on tip-toe they could share Eskimo kisses, nose to nose.  
  
“Bella,” he whispers, and he sounds shattered.   
  
She knows that she can’t turn around, can’t go back, can’t do that to them. Bellatrix feels her mouth opening, though, feels the words rush out before she has a chance to run away from this here-and-now that’s making her stomach hurt and her eyes wet.  
  
So she gives it to him, one last something to tether them together, and maybe she’s selfish for not wanting him to get over her, but she doesn’t care.  
  
“Just know, Antonin….just know that I do.”   
  
This is the “I do” that she means, that she will carry with her to the grave till death makes them part.  
  
It’s silent for a moment, Bella facing towards the house with Antonin behind her. She can hear him breathing, harsh and ragged, but only because she isn’t breathing at all. She doesn’t know if she expects him to say anything, doesn’t know if she wants him to.  
  
She starts to walk away, the ground cool beneath her feet even as her skin goes hot and prickly, and she barely hears him when he says, “I love you, too.”  
  
She feels as though the air has been knocked out of her chest; a tight, breathless feeling that hurts and leaves her gasping for breath, panicking at the loss of something she needs so desperately. Her toes curl into the soft dampness of the dirt; her nail dig tight into the flesh of her thighs.  
  
The pain is better than the feeling of her heart slipping through her ribs, her chest caving in to fill the void, her stomach wrenching up to follow her lungs. The space where her heart was is a black hole, the pressure immense and crushing, pulling everything in her, her soul, to that spot, so that she is nothing but acutely aware of its absence.  
  
She’d felt it before, creeping up on her, the sense that she was sometimes floating above the world, her mind only attached to her body by tiny threads of sanity. It had been happening more frequently, the looseness of thought consuming her as her paranoia increased. It all comes rushing to her now, heat and bright colors and somehow blackness, all at the same time, and suddenly she’s viewing the scene from high above. Bellatrix lets herself float, lets herself be taken away from Antonin, away from the hurt and the pain that she knows is never really leaving.  
  
It is the first night that she hurts someone, a frightened house-elf quivering in a patchwork tea-towel.  
  
It is the first night that she realizes she enjoys the pain of others, of making them feel what she feels. She imagines that the blood running out of their veins is her own pain leeching out of her, her victims’ bodies a conduit for her release.  
  
Bellatrix will always remember that night, moon fat and yellow in the sky and air thick with the scent of magnolias, when she walked away from Antonin and into the arms of Rodolphus.  
  
When she looks back, she thinks it is that moment when her mind broke, right along with her heart.


End file.
